


The Only Moment We Were Alone

by unlockedlips



Category: IT (2017), IT (2019), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beverly Marsh is worried, Bittersweet Ending, Body Horror, Briefly I swear, Dead Eddie Kaspbrak, First Kiss, Fluff, I promise you'll feel better after you read it, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, It's there at the end, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Not A Fix-It, Post-Canon, Richie Tozier is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 17:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20911595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unlockedlips/pseuds/unlockedlips
Summary: Richie doesn’t sleep.He’s not tired, not really. Sleep has never come easy to him, even when he was a kid. Too much anxious energy thrumming in his veins to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time let alone lie in a bed till morning. That hasn’t changed with age. He tells himself that’s why he stays up, staring at a blank word document as he tries to come up with some new material, his own material.After Derry, he told his manager he wouldn’t perform unless it was with his own stuff. That had resulted in the termination of his ten year contract with the one person that managed to get him booked. But that’s okay. He can still make it work. He can be funny. He can be real with the audience. He can make them laugh without talking about all the women his manager said he's fucked. He can be honest. He can be funny. He can be real.Richie doesn't sleep. Richie doesn't take care of himself. Richie doesn't dream.





	The Only Moment We Were Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched the second chapter a few days ago and left the theater a sobbing mess. Look, I'm an emotional person, but the way these two have absolutely murdered me is ridiculous.
> 
> Anyway, I got this idea as I was watching the end credits and as much as I wanted to work on my other WIP today, this idea kept nagging me. so yeah. I hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
> As always, please be sure to leave a comment or some kudos. I thrive off of validation. It feeds me and I am so very hungry. Also you can follow me at spagheddie-ohs on tumblr! sometimes I post fluffy shit, most of the time I post sad shit. you've been warned.
> 
> aaaaaand if, like me, you are still depressed over these losers, come scream at me at my 18 + reddie server! send me a message on tumblr and i'd be happy to drop a link

Richie doesn’t sleep.

He’s not tired, not really. Sleep has never come easy to him, even when he was a kid. Too much anxious energy thrumming in his veins to sit still for more than a few minutes at a time let alone lie in a bed till morning. That hasn’t changed with age. He tells himself that’s why he stays up, staring at a blank word document as he tries to come up with some new material, his own material. 

After Derry, he told his manager he wouldn’t perform unless it was with his own stuff. That had resulted in the termination of his ten year contract with the one person that managed to get him booked. But that’s okay. He can still make it work. He can be funny. He can be real with the audience. He can make them laugh without talking about all the women his manager said he's fucked. He can be honest. He can be funny. He can be real.

Richie spends his nights staring at the laptop screen, fingers drumming against the keys without ever typing anything. He looks in the monitor, at the glaring white of the empty document, and sees his own reflection. He’s not tired, really he isn’t, but his reflection looks like he is. His eyes are framed in purple bruising, his cheeks made more hollow by the patchy beard that grows out of neglect. It’s fine, he tells himself and grabs the glass of bourbon on the table.

Richie doesn’t take care of himself.

But that’s not really shocking. He’s never taken stock of his health-- physical, mental, or emotional. Vegetables are still gross no matter how they’re prepared (roasted or fried or sauteed, they still taste like dirt), and he can’t even look at meat anymore without smelling blood, hot and fresh, thick and pouring out of a mouth that’s looming above him. He’s nauseous most every day, but he eats. Of course he does. It’s not like he’s trying to starve himself. If someone were to look at his apartment, they’d see that he’s eating just fine. There’s grease stained pizza boxes littered across the tables and crumpled brown paper bags that still smell like fries on the counter.

Smoking helps. He lights his cigarettes one after another these days. It was always a nasty habit, one he tried to quit, not for his sake, but for those with lungs weaker than his own. He doesn’t have to worry about that now though. So he smokes until his lungs are full. It steadies his nerves, gives him something to do that isn’t thinking. His mind is loud these days.

Drinking helps too. He hates to admit it, but it quiets things down, softens the edges of the world around him. Richie lives his life in a blur, a haze he wraps around himself to stay safe. His glass is always full, the ice is always melted, but the liquor still tastes sweet like honeyed fire on his tongue. He gulps, doesn’t sip, and it sits like an anchor in his gut, keeps him rooted right where he is so he can’t float back into memories. It’s not a problem, not really, he doesn’t need it, but it helps. What had Beverly told him he needed again? Self-care, yeah, that’s what this is. It’s self-care.

Richie doesn’t dream.

When exhaustion takes over and his heavy eyes seal shut, he gets pulled down, down, down into the dark that he’s been hiding from and is forced to face what lies in the shadows. It’s always the same. He opens his eyes and sees the crumbling structure of the Neibolt House in front of him. He takes a hurried step back, tripping over long weeds that tangle around his ankles, and the wooden door swings open with a horrid screech. The wind blows, and he steps forward, over and over and over again until he is climbing the steps and crossing the threshold.

The smell always hits him first. It’s cloying and thick, the unmistakable stench of rot and decay. He looks up and sees that the beams are curved, rotten to the core, and yet the foundation still stands. Distantly, he knows the house caved in and is no more, but in this place, he wonders if it will stand forever.

He walks up the stairs and they creak under his weight. He knows they will carry him because the house isn’t really a house at all. It’s an echo. It’s an extension of pure evil and it will always get what it wants. Richie hears a noise. A quiet sob, followed by the sound of wheezing. It sounds like a frightened boy. It sounds like…

“Eddie?” He calls into the narrow corridor and laughter greets him, sharp and menacing. He should know better by now that what’s to come will never change. He should know better, but he always hopes.  
All of the doors are locked save for the one at the very end. He knows because he’s tried every one of them and no matter how hard he turns the rusted knobs, they won’t budge. A dim light glows from the doorway, a sickly green that reminds him of an infection. Eddie would hate this. Eddie would tell him to leave.

Inside the room, Eddie calls his name, and Richie runs to him.

Three doors face him. Three doors covered in writing, red as blood. Not scary at all. Scary. Very scary. At first, Richie thought it was a game. Maybe Pennywise was playing with him. Maybe he had to pick the right door to win. He’s tried all three and the same fate waits for him.

Tonight, Richie opens the door in the center, and is welcomed to the sight of Eddie, young and with his arm in a cast, cradled to his chest. Tear tracks stain the dirty skin of his face, leaving pale traces against the flecks of dried blood. He’s small but he’s still as mighty as Richie remembers him.

“What took you so long, asshole?” he snaps and Richie falls to his knees in front of him. “I was scared. You were supposed to get me out of here.”

“I know, Eds. I know. I’m sorry, but I’m here now. I’m here, right? We can leave now.”

Eddie shakes his head and his grimy hair falls into his eyes.

“I hate it when you call me that. Eds. Eddie Spaghetti. Spaghetti Man. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it!” He shouts, voice cutting through the silence of the house. “I hate you!”

“No, no, don’t say that. Okay, I’ll stop. I’ll stop if you just come with me. Let me get you out of here,” Richie begs and reaches out to grab his uninjured arm and Eddie snarls like a feral animal, lunging as if to bite him with his blunt teeth that morph and change into rows of sharp teeth that distend past his lips. Richie falls back with a ragged gasp, ass hitting the wooden floor and knocking the breath out of him.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Eddie cries and his bones break. His skin stretches, leathers into something gray and disgusting, and Richie stares up with wide eyes, mouth agape in horror. What once was a child is now a leper, held together by filthy bandages. “This is what I’ve become,” it gurgles, voice caught in the phlegm that coats its throat. “All because you left me here.”

“No!” Richie cries. “No, it’s not true! It’s not real. Eddie, please, come back, come back to me, Eds, let me make this right. Let me…” He chokes off and sobs, broken and wretched. The leper leans over him and a drop of foul vomit, thick and black like ink, falls from its mouth to land on the knee of his jeans. Richie watches it, cannot bring himself to look up at the leper, and the drop turns bright red. He knows that the worst part is about to come.

“R-Richie?” 

Richie looks up and is greeted by the sight of Eddie’s corpse, blue and swollen, the cavity in his chest open and oozing. He wants to beg. He wants to scream. Instead, he grabs for Eddie’s cold hands and holds them tight.

Eddie opens his mouth to smile and blood pours from behind his teeth.

Richie wakes alone in his bed covered in cold sweat and fumbles to turn on the light. He reaches for the trashcan he keeps at his bedside and retches. 

See, he doesn’t dream anymore. He has nightmares.

Unable to face the rest of the night with a sour taste on his tongue, he fumbles for his cellphone on his nightstand and swipes to unlock the screen. He hasn’t spoken to any of the losers since they left Derry unless he can help it. He loves them all dearly, truly he does, but they all got their happy ending. Bill wrote that bestseller that’s being heralded as this generation’s best horror saga. Mike bought a beachfront property in Florida and fishes from his front porch. Ben and Beverly got married and spend their days in a state of honeymoon bliss. He’s happy for them all, but how is it fair that they all got everything they wanted and Richie is forced to wake choking on his own puke?

Richie scrolls through his contacts and presses the call button once he reaches Beverly’s number. It rings and rings and rings. This is stupid. He doesn’t know why he’s calling her. He’s never called her before, but god, he can’t stand the thought of spending the rest of this night alone.

“Richie? What are you doing? It’s four in the morning over here.” Her voice answers on the sixth ring, slurred with the remnants of sleep. He should feel guilty for waking her, but it’s impossible over the wave of relief that washes over him.

“Bev,” he sighs and his voice cracks. He presses the phone so tightly to his ear that it hurts and hot tears roll down his cheeks.

“Oh honey, are you okay?” In the background, he hears the sound of sheets and blankets rustling as she pushes them aside to get out of bed. “No offense but you sound like shit.”

“Yeah, I feel like shit,” he agrees. He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking shallow breaths to calm his frantic heart. “Hey, listen, I know it’s late but… do you think when we killed It, we freed them?”

There’s a pause of silence as Beverly tries to understand. “Them? Who are you talking about?”

“The kids,” he says quickly. “The, the people that It killed. He used to use them, remember? Like pawns. He used to make them scare his victims and lure them and, Beverly, do you think they’re free?” 

“I… I don’t know, Richie. I guess so. I mean, I’d like to believe they did.” She sighs heavily on the phone. “Is this about Eddie? I know you feel guilty about leaving him, but there was nothing we could do to save him. He was already gone. Listen, we’ve all been talking, and we’re worried about you. Let us buy you a ticket. You can stay with us for a little while, just until you get back on your feet. Or if you don’t want to come back to the east coast, I know Bill and Audra would love to have you. We just don’t think it’s good for you to be alo--”

“I keep having these dreams,” he interrupts her. He doesn’t want to go to New York or move in with Bill. He wants Eddie back. He wants to tell him everything he never got the chance to when they were kids. He desperately wants to make things right. “I keep having this dream where I’m back in that stupid fucking house and he’s there. And he, he, he, fuck, it’s awful. It’s not him at all. It’s that stupid clown fucking with me. I think it’s ‘cause I got caught in the deadlights, you know? Like you did. You said you kept dreaming about us dying, but I keep dreaming about him. Maybe that means we didn’t really kill It. Maybe he’s still there. I think I need to go back. Shit, I don’t know but I can’t just stay here if there’s a chance he’s…”

“Richie.” Beverly’s voice is soft, but stern. There’s no room for argument in the way she says his name. “I haven’t had a nightmare like that since we left. It’s over. The deadlights, It, everything. It’s over. I think you… don’t take this the wrong way, please, but I think you need help. I think you need to talk to a professional.”

Richie laughs and the sound of it echoes in his empty apartment, sad and cold. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Look, sorry I called you so late. I’ll let you go. Give Ben a kiss from me.”

“Richie, wait--”

“Goodnight, Bev.”

Richie doesn’t sleep. Richie doesn’t take care of himself. Richie doesn’t dream.

He’s two-thirds down a bottle of bourbon, and he can’t even taste it anymore. So what if he’s a has-been comedian with a drinking problem and insomnia? So what if he spends his days rotting away in the four walls of his apartment? Doesn’t fucking matter anyway. It’s all bullshit. Life without Eddie is bullshit. They could have had everything together if he wasn’t such chickenshit. What if he had confessed earlier? What if he had the foresight to roll Eddie out of harm’s way? Maybe Eddie would have divorced Myra. Maybe he would have moved in with Richie and helped him come up with new jokes. Maybe they would have learned what it meant to be unafraid of their love. Maybe they could have had it all together.

Maybe…

The word echoes in his mind as the bottle falls from his limp hand and crashes to the floor. It shatters, little shards of glass sparkling against the hardwood. In the morning, he will forget about them and will step with his bare feet onto the ground, and the sharp pain will remind him that he is alive, but for now, his heavy eyelids close and he blacks out.

The nightmare is the same as it always is. The house. The stairs. The hall. The doors. 

Richie opens the one marked not scary at all and is blinded by soft light. It’s warm and golden, the gentle hues of a summer sunset warming his cold skin. He squints against the brightness of it, hand covering his eyes as he steps through the doorway. Behind him, the closet door swings shut, and Richie is greeted with the sound of birdsong and running water.

This isn’t right. This is different. This is… new.

His hand drops to his side and he is standing in the middle of the road facing the one place that will always have a home in his heart. The kissing bridge is just as he remembers it as a child. The carvings along the railing are fresh and deep. He can read them easily, so easily in fact that his eyes find the spot where he had shakily carved his deepest secret into the grain of the wood. He stumbles towards it and drops to his knees, fingers reaching out to trace the lines of the letter E he left all those years ago. A piece of wood gets caught in the ridges of his finger and he pulls back with a swear on his lips.

“Way to go, dumbass, you got a splinter. That could get infected you know.” The voice is familiar, deep and raspy, and it flays him open to hear it. He’s afraid to turn around, afraid to see what awful surprise Pennywise has for him tonight when he feels a hand grip his shoulder tight. The touch is warm. It’s heavy. It’s… real. “Let me see it before you do something stupid like pick it out with your teeth. Do you know how disgusting mouths are? Fucking gross, man.”

Richie turns and standing in front of him is Eddie exactly how he saw him last. He’s alive and in one piece. There’s no blood stains or eerie smiles. There’s no stench or vomit or clowns. There’s nothing but Eddie and his worried stare, and Richie falls forward. He clutches at Eddie’s legs, buries his face against the rough material of his jeans, and sobs. 

“Richie, hey, don’t be a pussy, it’s just a splinter.” Eddie moves away to kneel against the cracked asphalt and grabs hold of Richie’s face. His doe eyes search Richie’s face and his brow furrows in a deep-set frown that somehow manages to still be cute. “Bev was right, you know, you look like shit. Smell like shit too. Like a fucking liquor store.” And then Eddie is pulling Richie forward, holding him tight and close to his chest. He smells like he did as a kid, like sunscreen and Dial soap, clean and sweet. Richie clutches him hard enough that he’s sure it has to hurt, and Eddie lets him.

“I don’t understand,” Richie sniffles and moves back to look at Eddie. He pushes back his glasses to wipe away at the tears that continue to fall. He doesn’t want them to blur his vision, he wants to see this, he wants to know that Eddie is really there in front of him.

“So don’t try to. I’m here. Isn’t that good enough?” Eddie asks with a small smile. He pushes Richie’s glasses back down to perch on the bridge of his nose. “I like what you did here. Too bad I didn’t see it when we were kids.” Eddie’s eyes fall on the carving behind them and Richie’s face flushes red.

“Listen, Eddie, I should have told you sooner, but I never had the chance, and I, fuck, I’m sorry, but I can tell you now. I can tell you that I…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Eddie murmurs, hand coming up to stroke Richie’s cheek. “Look over there, across the street. You don’t have to say anything because I already know. I feel the same.”

Richie freezes and his eyes scour the dark wood across from them. It’s hard to see anything from this distance despite his glasses, but if he squints hard enough he thinks he can make out the jagged edges of a hand-carved heart with a crooked R in the center. His mind blanks. He was always smart as a kid. He was good at tests and better at exams. But in this moment he feels stupid and slow. Because the only word that comes to mind when he sees the R is his own name and that can’t be right. It can’t be. That means this whole time Eddie…

“I carved that a few days after we made that oath. You can tell I used my left hand. Look at how dumb it looks. But I was proud of myself when I was done. I thought you’d be proud of me too.” 

Richie can see it if he thinks hard enough. Eddie carrying a small pocket knife, slightly terrified of its razor sharp blade as he chipped away at the wood. He’s right. Richie is proud of him, but then again, Eddie was always braver than all of them combined.

“I feel so fucking stupid,” Richie laughs, voice thick with emotion. “If I had said something sooner maybe we could have, I don’t know, made things work. I just… I need you, Eddie. I’m no good without you.”

There’s that frown again. Richie doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing it.

“Bullshit. You’re plenty good without me. You’re Richie Trashmouth Tozier, comedian extraordinaire. You’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted ahead of you. But you gotta stop this, man, it’s killing you.” 

“I don’t want any of it, none of it, unless I have you,” Richie says fiercely, his hands fisting into the material of Eddie’s thin t-shirt.

“Who says you don’t?” Eddie asks gently and takes Richie’s hands into his own. Richie stares down at them, at the way their fingers look intertwined together. “I don’t know what this place is but… it’s nice, Richie. It’s like every good summer we ever spent together combined into one. Stan’s here too. He wanted me to tell you to man the fuck up, but I told him that was pretty fucking rude.” Eddie laughs and Richie thinks maybe this must be heaven then. He was never religious as a child, but his parents were casually Christian. Every now and again they’d go to church and Maggie would have to hush him every time the pastor said something about letting Christ into his body.

But it must be heaven if Eddie is here, it must be if…

“Can I stay here with you? Please, I don’t want to go back. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t,” Richie begs and he grips onto Eddie’s hands tight enough he feels the bones grind under his touch.

“Sorry, no can do, Tozier. It’s not your time. But I’ll be waiting for you, I can promise you that. You’ll be here in a blink of an eye. We all will. Losers stick together, right?” Eddie lets go of his hands to smooth back Richie’s greasy hair. He doesn’t even grimace as he cards his fingers through the tangled locks. “But you have to do something for me, alright? You have to forgive yourself. You couldn’t save me, do you understand me? Nothing any of you could have done would have saved me. It always had to be this way. It was the only way to kill It.”

Richie shakes his head, tears flying from off his cheeks, but Eddie stops him with a gentle touch. “No, no, you’re wrong. I shouldn’t have left you down there. I could have gotten you out at least.”

“What, and died in the process? Sorry, but I like you better alive. Listen to me Richie Tozier and listen to me good, I forgive you. I forgive you.” And now Eddie is crying and he’s pulling Richie forward, and he’s pushing their lips together in a kiss that’s long overdue. It’s tender and soft, it’s everything Richie has ever dreamed of. It’s the only fucking kiss that Richie’s ever had that’s made him feel anything at all, and he gives it everything he’s got. They stay like that for awhile, hands gripping whatever they can reach, lips and teeth and tongue trying to make the most out of borrowed time. They part, breathless and wanting, and Richie presses their foreheads together. “I forgive you.”

Richie knows then that his time is almost up. The birds have slowly quieted their song, only to be replaced by a symphony of crickets. The sun dips behind the trees and the shadows grow longer. Eddie leans in and kisses him one last time and Richie does everything he can to remember the way he tastes.

“When you wake up, you better remember to disinfect that. And no, not with bourbon. Get some neosporin,” Eddie smiles and pulls away from him.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. God, you’re worse than your mom,” Richie grins and scrambles to stand up. “Hopefully you’re better than her in bed.”

“You’re fucking kidding me. We’re back to that? Really?” But Eddie is grinning too. 

“So… I guess this is goodbye? I feel like one of those chicks in those stupid romcom films. It would be more dramatic if it was raining.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “It’s only goodbye if you want it to be.” He pauses. “Fuck, you’re right. It does sound like a bad script. Fuck this, I’m out. But, uh, listen… If you need me, you can always come back. I know I’m irresistible so…”

“You’re cute is what you are. Cute and super fucking annoying. I’ll see you around, Eds. You better be right here waiting for me. And a live band. Okay, I deserve a grand entrance.”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Eddie laughs. “I’ll be here. Don’t worry.” Eddie looks at him for a beat longer and Richie looks back before he turns away and makes his way across the bridge. On the other side, it looks as if the setting sun has settled along the horizon. Richie tries to keep his eyes trained on the silhouette of his shoulders as he shrinks into the distance, but it’s hard to make sense of anything in the glow.

“Hey Eds!” He calls, hands cupped around his mouth. “I love you! Just in case you didn’t know!”

He hears laughter, small and childlike, and he thinks he sees a pair of bikes at the end of the tunnel. Two kids stand with their hands on the handlebars as they make their way down the street, one with wild curls and another with a fanny pack on his waist.

“I love you too! Go take a shower! I can smell you from here!”

Richie wakes to the morning sun shining through the slits of the blind and a throbbing pain in his index finger. He looks down and sees a tiny sliver of wood buried in his skin and smiles to himself as he stands, carefully avoiding the mess of broken glass that glitters before him. Eddie was right. He really should get some neosporin.

Richie starts to sleep after that. He starts to take care of himself. But most importantly, every night that he falls asleep in his bed, Richie dreams.


End file.
